


Ruined Sleep

by xylia1225



Series: Help us survive being alive-Wilton Fics [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but mostly Chilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylia1225/pseuds/xylia1225
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick doesn't want to overstay his welcome at Will's house, but is having trouble adjusting to living in his own again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruined Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place immediately following "Not a patient nor a prisoner"; Also, there isn't really graphic violence but there is a little blood

The drive back to his house was not particularly fun.  The shots of pain became more frequent as he drove, the bright sun and lack of sunglasses didn't help.  Though Frederick didn't think wearing glasses would go over so well at the moment, anyway.

He entered his home, entered the security password, reset the password.  Holding his head with one hand and using the other to lean on his cane, he stumbled clumsily to his living room and splayed out on his couch.  It was a beautiful couch, white leather with black accents.  It was very contemporary, very chic.  It was also very uncomfortable.  He found himself thinking of the soft, worn couch in Will's living room.

Frederick stood up then and looked at the clock.  It was only 3:00pm, but he was exhausted.  Maybe he could take some pain medication, and then a long night's rest.  He didn't want to feel the pain throbbing through his skull anymore.

No.  He had to do that which he had tried to do before running to Will's house earlier.  He needed to walk through his home.  He needed to reclaim it as his own.

Frederick had tried starting in the kitchen earlier, before running away to Will's house, but the grotesque tableau that Hannibal had left for him came rushing into his mind.  He had stumbled, dropped his cane, tripped and fell to the floor.  The memory was so real, so vivid.  It had taken him a full five minutes to catch his breath and stand again.  Then he ran away.

But Frederick refused to do that a second time.  He took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and walked slowly but confidently toward his kitchen.

It was regrettable that everything had been white and silver.  Blood still stained the walls, the floor, the counters.  The scene had been washed, of course, but blood was stubborn.  That was alright, Dr. Frederick Chilton was more stubborn still.  He'd replace the drywall, install new counters, replace the floor.  It was time for a change anyway. 

Frederick looked around his kitchen for as long as he could before his feelings of nausea threatened to make good on their promise.  He turned away from the room, staring instead at the stairway that led down to his wine cellar and guest room.

 _The house is empty,_ he told himself with another deep breath.  Cautiously, he descended into his basement.  It was quiet, there was no beeping machinery, no weak rattling breath.  When Frederick reached the bottom of the stairs he let out a pitiful moan.

They took his wine.  The goddamn FBI confiscated all of his wine.  His beautiful vintages, his collection that had been built from years of traveling and tasting, were all gone.  Frederick placed a hand on an empty shelf and sighed.  If he wasn't going to take pain killers, the least he could have done was have a nice glass of wine.  But the FBI-no, Hannibal-had robbed him of even that small comfort.

After staring around his empty guest room for a moment, Frederick allowed himself to return upstairs.  Perhaps a shower would make him feel more relaxed and at home.

Frederick made his way to the second story and started to run the water.  As he removed his shirt, he stared at himself in the mirror.  The scar running down his belly still made him shudder, but he forced himself to look.  Then he looked at his face.  The wound looked black from the stitches but was almost completely healed now.  He had been in the hospital for quite some time, after all.  The scar would be small enough.  Frederick wondered if he grew his beard back if that would make it more or less noticeable.  He'd have to experiment.

Before stepping into the shower, Frederick decided to put on some music to help keep him calm.  He flipped through the songs on his iPod.  He didn't want anything with words, so he chose his classical music playlist.  Beethoven, Mozart, Bach.  Frederick was by no means an aficionado of classical music, but a classy and civilized man like himself should at least know the big names.  As cellos and violins began to hum out of the speakers installed in the walls, Frederick stepped into the shower.

He still resented the fact he'd needed a bar installed in his shower, to help keep his balance.  Most days, he'd do his best to stand without it, but today he allowed himself the luxury.  Frederick let the hot water rush over his head, soothing the throbbing pain.  As he lathered shampoo into his hair, he noted how good it was to smell like himself again.  As he washed the hospital scent from his body he began to feel free and at ease.  He began to feel normal.

After he was done, Frederick stepped out of the shower, rubbing his hair dry with his towel.  As he wrapped the towel around his waist, he studied his scars again.  He took a breath to puff up his chest, and raised his chin.  He was not some broken man, no.  He was a survivor, and he had the scars to prove it.  He should be proud.  Not many people could say they survived being disemboweled and shot in the face.  Frederick almost laughed at the thought, but it caught in his throat.

A good book, that's what Frederick needed.  A good book would keep his mind focused on something other than the creeping dark thoughts.  But which book?

Frederick pulled on a pair of plaid pajama pants and walked around the library that was opposite his bedroom.  Most of his books were about psychiatry-not exactly what he was in the mood for.  Others were American literary classics.  He picked up his copy of  _The Great Gatsby_.  No, there's violence in that one.  Placing that book down, he next looked at  _Fahrenheit 451._ He scoffed.  That was hardly what he was in the mood for.

Frederick turned to examine another shelf.  Then he remembered a book, stuffed in the corner of the bottom shelf.  It was a collection of poetry from the Romantic era that his mother had given him many years ago.  Frederick had accepted the gift with a sigh and dramatic eye roll.  It wasn't an appropriate gift for him at all, why didn't his own mother know that?  But today he picked the book up and brought it into his room.

Frederick lounged on his bed, propped up by countless silk-covered pillows.  He reached into his nightstand drawer to grab his reading glasses and stopped.  Glasses were a bad idea with the wound on his cheek.  He grabbed instead for his magnifying glass.  An underrated tool, in his opinion.

It didn't take long for Frederick to succumb to his exhaustion, letting his eyes droop shut as he read a poem by Lord Byron.  

_His dreaming started pleasantly enough, pretty words encircling his head.  They made sense at first, but swirled into a calm chaos of nothing.  Frederick walked around the outside of his house, gliding really.  The sun shone so bright the sky was white.  There was a sound behind him, a dark shadow, and then pleasant brightness again.  He entered his house.  The beeping started up as soon as he crossed the threshold.  Somewhere in his mind he knew what that sound was, but he couldn't stop himself from investigating.  He felt himself pulled down to the guest room.  There stood Abel Gideon, in full surgical scrubs.  "Have a seat, Dr. Chilton," he said, gesturing to the table in front of him.  It was already drenched with blood, with more spreading from nowhere and everywhere.  Frederick grabbed his stomach and felt as if he'd vomit as he rushed back up the stairs.  At the top stood Hannibal, in his shining plastic suit.  Blood dripped from his fingers as he reached toward Frederick._

Frederick tossed and turned in his bed, sweating profusely.  He mumbled desperately to his demons, more and more loudly.  Finally he screamed, flailing frantically.  He flung his magnifying glass across the room, breaking it as it hit the stone of the fireplace.

Gasping for breath, Frederick looked at the clock.  4:08 am.  He leaned back into his pillows and looked down at the scar on his stomach.  Who was he trying to kid?  He was a broken man.


End file.
